


flesh/NAKED

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All sorts of bodily fluids, Car Accidents, M/M, Morning After, Outdoor Sex, Pornographic, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brutal car crash leads to adrenaline-fueled sex, followed by a surprisingly honest morning after talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flesh/NAKED

**Author's Note:**

> This exists because I needed to write something dirty and upbeat to balance out all of the dark stuff I've been writing. So, yeah. Enjoy.

**I.**

****

In the end, it’s literally a collision that brings them together. 

There are a million different ways Stiles has imagined the scenario playing out: quiet bonding over their tortured pasts, frantic scrabbling in some back alley after an erotically charged argument, Derek coming to his window in the dead of night to lay his feelings on the line and finally push past all this frustrating pretense that there’s nothing going on between them. But no, ultimately what it takes to end the charade is a violent crash on a cold winter evening, and then - _then_ everything is out the open. All laid bare.

 

**II.**

Sundown. The rosy hue of the purpling sky is strained and stretched out into an alien vista reminiscent of an ancient world long forgotten by time. The January chill strikes the brittle tone that underlines the collecting wisps of smoke billowing up from the chimneys of the snowcapped suburban rooftops seen as miniatures from the distant curve of the two-lane forest highway across the gap of the evergreen valley. A dusting of powered white is laid out in a thin spread over the slick blanket of ice covering the winding road. Even with the windows rolled up, Stiles can still hear the wind whistling through the cracks at the top of the glass, and to his ears it sounds like the high-pitched howling of wolves. 

The whole thing is over in seconds. There’s no one else on the path ahead, no sign of a threat in the growing dark. Then: the flash of the Camaro’s brights blinding his eyes, the screech of metal on metal as the black hood crumples into the side of the Jeep and shatters the window, shards of glass spraying inward and slicing through the upholstery, some of the larger pieces cutting through Stiles’ shirt and passing by to imbed themselves in the driver’s side door. Stiles’ eyes squeeze shut, breath catching in his chest as the airbag bursts out of the steering wheel to smack him in the face. It punches him squarely in the nose, not hard enough to break the bone, but just enough to draw blood. The pain whites out his vision, and he can’t see a thing as the tires squeal, rubber slipping on the wet ground as the Jeep flips over the edge of the curve. 

The front end of the Camaro is lodged into the side of the Jeep, and the car turns over with the momentum of the crash, fender grinding against the polished doorframe as both vehicles careen out of control down the side of the hill. They Jeep ends up on its side, stilled in its flipping by the sturdy trunk of a crooked tree. The Camaro continues on for a ways, eventually coming to a rest several yards down the slope, miraculously finishing right side up. The sounds of groaning metal have ceased, but the wind - God, the wind - is definitely howling now.

Stiles sits rigid in his seat, frozen with shock, cheeks turning pink as the chill blows in through the shattered glass. The airbag makes a funny wheezing noise it slowly deflates, dangling like a limp balloon. Scattershot droplets of red catch Stiles’ attention, and he wipes away the smeared blood from his nose, moves his neck as best he can to search for serious injuries. He reaches around the side of the chair, cringing at the pain in his arm, and he presses down on the unlock for the seatbelt, clutches at the seat cushions to keep from falling backward into the collection of sharp pieces gathered together against the blades of grass poking through the smashed out window. 

The windshield isn’t entirely blown out, so Stiles carefully shrugs out of his red hoodie and wraps the sleeves around his palms before punching through the remaining chunks of the side window and clambering up onto the top of the car. He shivers in the cold, goosebumps breaking out on his arms as he sits cross-legged on the crumpled mound of twisted metal. The right side tires spin pitifully in place, going nowhere. Exhaust trails out of the back pipe, and Stiles winces as he hears the sputtering rumble of the still-working engine.

A loud crack catches his attention, and he freezes up at the sight of the Camaro’s side door opening. It’s Derek - of _course_ it is - and he’s stumbling out into the snow, kicking his leg free of the tangled seatbelt. His car is completely totaled, in worse shape than Stiles’, probably broken beyond repair. There’s a long red gash across the front of his face - diagonal and deep, starting from his forehead and leading across his nose and mouth down to his chin. It’s healing already, sealing up and leaving unblemished skin stung dry with the cold. 

Stiles swallows thickly as Derek’s eyes raise to meet his, heart pounding in his chest. He tenses, silently noting the werewolf’s stone-face expression. “I-” he begins. He swallows again. “I didn’t see-”

But Derek is shaking his head, already marching across the grass towards him. He’s limping slightly, trying to hide it, eyes burning red like embers in the dark cradle of his sockets. “Come here,” he growls.

Stiles pushes himself forward and slides down off the wreckage. He hits the ground running, stumbles into Derek’s grasp. “I didn’t see you,” he repeats, shaking, fear and adrenaline battling for control of his system. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You’re hurt.” Derek’s eyes are _blazing_. His hands are like vices, squeezing Stiles’ biceps, clenching tighter as he looks the boy over for cuts. “You’re bleeding.”

Stiles tries to push him away, but he won’t budge. “Loosen up a bit,” he hisses. “You’re gonna leave bruises.”

Derek frowns, not getting it at first. His eyes widen slightly in understanding, and he lets go of Stiles’ arms like they’re on fire. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Stiles shrugs it off. “It’s fine.”

There’s a loud pop, followed by the hissing of smoke. They turn together to watch as a small fire comes to life in the backseat of Derek’s mangled car. The smell of burning leather fills Stiles’ nostrils as he breathes in deep, wiping away the dried blood and forming snot at the corner of his nose. He sniffles quietly, folds his arms over his chest. Derek stands stiffly at his side, eyebrows drawn into a thin, dark line as he stares blankly at the rising flames. The back window - the last one intact - bursts out and shatters into crystalline shards, spilling out onto the snow. Derek throws up a protective arm, shielding Stiles from the spray, even though they’re at least twenty feet away. 

“God damn it,” Derek says, voice strained. The sparks from the fire dance up into the air like lightning bugs, intermingling with the falling shards and casting orange light on the broken glass. There’s an ethereal beauty to it, in a way. Stiles’ knees give way beneath him, and he crumples to the ground, hands splayed out in front of him to land in the wet grass. Derek is at his side in an instant. “Stiles?” His arm snakes around Stiles’ back, bracing, supportive.

“Is this the moment?” Stiles asks, barely louder than a whisper. His head lolls back, eyes locking with Derek’s. “Do you think?”

He feels Derek’s arm stiffen, sees the doubt and uncertainty behind those shuttered eyes. He reaches up to touch two forefingers to the corner of Derek’s mouth, brushing against the dry skin cracked and torn by the wind. 

Derek shudders, goes limp for all but a second. And then everything drains away - Stiles can tell the moment it happens, can see the insecurity evaporating. Derek’s as high on the adrenaline rush as he is, and neither of them are in the mood to think. Neither of them are in the state of mind to care about what this means or where they are, or what it is they’re supposed to mean to each other, or where this is going to go when it’s over. There’s only here and now, and it’s fucking _happening_.

Stiles’ chest hitches, a slow groan drawn out of him as he feels Derek’s tongue swipe against his fingertips. The rest of his breath rushes out in a soft oof as Derek’s hands come up to grasp once more at his shoulders and slam him down hard onto the solid earth. 

The growl that rumbles up dark and possessive inside Derek’s throat doesn’t carry a hint of humanity with it. No, it’s all feral: hunger and pent-up frustration, desperation and want. He nips briefly at Stiles’ fingers once, twice, bats them away and moves his hands up the length of Stiles’ arms to grab his wrists, pins him. “I- fuck...” His voice is slurred, drunk on the thrill of near-death and his quickly mounting lust.

Stiles squirms underneath him, pupils blown wide. “Come on...” he groans, canting his hips upward. A tremor runs up his body as Derek’s grip on his wrists tightens. “Just-”

Derek snarls, presses his nose into the curve of Stiles’ neck. His canines lengthen, nipping at the pale expanse of exposed flesh, not breaking the skin but hard enough to hurt. Stiles makes a sort of strangled sound, eyes rolling back into his head. His knee jerks up and connects with Derek’s ribcage, eliciting a startled yelp. 

“You-” Derek starts, breathing heavily.

“Stop fucking around,” Stiles interrupts, half-frustrated, half-pleading. He whimpers as Derek’s body presses up flush against his own. “Do it.”

Derek’s nails stretch out into claws. He looks right on the verge of going berserk, and that really ought to scare Stiles more than it does. He glances over his shoulder, up the slope, and lets go of Stiles’ wrists unexpectedly, reaching down to hoist him to his feet by the front of his shirt. “Okay,” he grits out.

Stiles blinks at him, dazed. “Yeah?”

Derek steers him backwards, pushing him down to the grass again, this time behind the wreckage of the Jeep, hidden out of view of the road. His features shift back to human form, claws receding away. Only the fire in his eyes remains. “Yes.”

He takes a hand to Stiles’ jawline, pushing up to bare his neck once more. Stiles swallows nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Derek growls, leans down to lick a hot, wet stripe up from Stiles’ shoulder to his cheek. 

Stiles shudders, heat rushing to his head, filling him up with a sort of manic energy. Free to use his hands, he wraps his arms around the back of Derek’s neck and yanks him down further, nearly bopping their noses together. “Please,” he whispers, not caring if he sounds desperate. “I need you to-”

Derek cuts him off, covering his mouth with his own. And it’s not at all like Stiles could have thought; there’s no tenderness to it, nor any indication of experience and practice. It’s all a mashing of teeth and tongue, and it’s hot and wet and sticky, and sort of gross actually, but it doesn’t matter because they’re _here,_ and this is happening. Derek’s hands come up to cradle the back of Stiles’ head, gripping hard and holding him in place, as if he thinks the moment will slip away from him if he dares to let go.

It suddenly hits Stiles that he’s really about to have _sex_. With Derek. In the middle of a field, on the side of the road. Without protection. There’s a frightening recklessness to the whole thing that should snap him to his senses, but ultimately just makes everything feel more exhilarating. This sort of thing doesn’t happen to him. This is for other people. Except, it seems, today.

His heart is pounding like it’s ready to explode, loud enough that he can hear it - which means Derek can obviously hear it. He shivers, hands fisting Derek’s hair, arching upward into the kiss. And then he _bites_ , not caring if he draws blood, not caring what that means to a werewolf.

Derek jerks away, startled. His lower lip is split, stung red from Stiles’ tongue and teeth, a single droplet of blood falling away from the corner of his mouth and landing on the collar of Stiles’ shirt. He freezes for a moment, blinks, and then _grins_. And it’s fucking inhuman, a feral smile. The look of a madman observing his intended victim.

He releases Stiles’s head, trailing his fingers down the sides of the boy’s neck to curl in the collar of his t-shirt. He rips it open, fabric tearing apart like paper, leaving Stiles’ chest exposed to the elements.

Stiles closes his eyes, letting his head fall back as Derek works his way down his chest, licking and nipping and nicking and kissing, leaving a red flush behind on the previously white skin. Derek pauses, pulls away to examine a particularly nasty cut running across Stiles’ stomach. “The glass,” Stiles explains, glancing down at the crimson line.

Derek’s mouth twitches angrily. He presses a hand to Stiles’ chest, holding him down as he presses his mouth against the wound. Stiles screws his eyes shut, toes curling in his shoes as Derek’s saliva intermingles with his blood; he can _feel_ the salve at work, can feel the pain phasing out into nothingness. He opens one eye, looks down at his arm where the dark bruise left by the werewolf's claws is beginning to show. He bites his lip to keep from moaning, balls his hands up into fists. “Come on,” he manages to say, and Derek lifts his head to look him in the eye.

The werewolf nods, wipes his mouth. He peels his shirt off and tosses it aside, brushes away the tatters of Stiles’ garments. “It’s going to hurt,” he says, voice so dark and _wrecked_ , it sounds as though he’s been guzzling bourbon by the gallon. “A lot.”

Stiles unbuttons his jeans, lifting his hips so he can shuck them off. “Yep,” he replies meaninglessly, kicking off his shoes. His eyes roam over Derek’s bare chest because he can. Because he’s allowed to look. He lifts his hand to touch, gasps at the cold prickling his fingertips. “Freezing,” he mutters, and he raises his other hand, places it against Derek’s stomach, leaves it there. 

Derek yanks Stiles’ boxers off, pulls away to finish with his own clothes. And then they’re both totally bare, a pair of ghostly figures in the snow, all intertwined in a mass of limbs. Derek hooks Stiles’ legs up over his shoulders, starts to slide into him, no preparation, no nothing.

And it’s agony, blissful agony to match the cuts and bruises, harsh enough to whiteout all thoughts of mental scars and past tragedies. There’s only this moment, and it’s a pain Stiles can live in. He does, bearing it silently as Derek starts up in rhythmic motion, slow at first, then frantic, frenzied. He can feel his body reacting of its own accord, and the waves of pleasure rocking through him begin to cancel out the persisting hurt. There are _noises,_ too: slick, wet sounds that are actually sort of disgusting, and so Stiles closes his eyes and hums to himself to tune it out. He focuses instead on the feel of it all. On the iron grip of Derek’s hands at his hips, and the warmth twisting at his insides as the throbbing stab of Derek’s cock jackknifes in and out in scattershot tempo.

He gasps at the cold touch of Derek’s hand wrapping around him, jerking him. And it takes mere seconds before he’s spilling out onto himself, splattering onto his chest and stomach, and writhing in discomfort as Derek follows soon after. The warm sensation of being _filled_ , the stickiness and strangeness of the moment is so alien from anything he’s ever known, regardless of how often he’s wandered to this place in his dreams.

Derek collapses on top of him, breathing ragged, panting against Stiles’ cheek. He turns his mouth to the side, slips his tongue past Stiles’ lips. Even now, the kisses seem charged with panicked energy, never mind the leisurely pace. Stiles’ face feels stung by the touch of another, his virginal state now thoroughly battered into nonexistence.

Eventually Derek rolls away, lies with his chest pressed against Stiles’ back, just breathing against the nape of his neck. Stiles stares up at the sky, blinking rapidly as the flurries of tiny snowflakes begin to shower down upon them. His body is in shock, legs frozen stiff by the chill of the snow, warmth spreading through his back with the aid of the living furnace behind him. Derek’s leg swings over to hook between his own, locking him in place.

Stiles closes his eyes, lays his head down on the grass. His arms and legs are, he’s just now realizing, coated with flakes of green, dusted by snow and dirt. “We’re going to get hypothermia and die,” he murmurs sleepily.

Derek grunts disagreeably. “You, maybe. I’ll be fine.” Stiles is too exhausted to kick him in reply.

“Ass.” He shudders as a gust of wind whips at his cheeks. He feels Derek tense up behind him in response. 

“Hold on.” 

Stiles opens one eye, cranes his neck around to watch as Derek stands, moving over to the pile of clothes to get dressed. “I’m starting to feel sour about you ripping up my t-shirt.”

Derek nods distractedly, not looking at him. “I’m going to carry you to the house. It’s not far.”

Stiles rolls over to face him. He brings his knees up to his chest, suddenly feeling irrationally embarrassed by his nudity. “Actually, uh...my dad is out of town this weekend. So...we could go to _my_ house.”

He doesn’t get a response right away. Stiles bites his lip, watching Derek button up his pants. Then: “Okay. Yeah.”

Stiles nods to himself, rolling over on his back to face the sky. The thin haze of clouds does not conceal the sparkling of the stars tonight. They’re out in full force, innumerable in the endless heavens, hung in suspension out in the cold and the dark of the great beyond.

And Derek’s car is still on fire.

 

**III.**

The thermostat is turned up to 79, and the mechanical whirring of the heater system rumbles in the hall as the morning wears on into noon. Derek wakes first, blinking away the crust from his eyelids. He’s slick with sweat, tangled in the bedsheets and plastered to Stiles’ back, one arm curled protectively around the teenager’s chest.

He freezes, realizing where he is and why, the events of the previous night coming back to him in a barrage of graphic images: the blood and sweat and semen and saliva. The crash, and the fire.

Stiles’ breathing is even, quiet, his heart is thumping at a slow, steady pace. He’s still asleep, mouth dropped open, drooling on the pillow. He grumbles irritably, kicking out at nothing, like a dog dreaming of running. It’s almost enough to make Derek laugh; it probably would under any other circumstances.

Derek feels overheated, torso flushed red as he clambers out of bed, bottoms of his feet dragging on the carpet. He steals one of Stiles’ looser fitting shirts out of the chest of drawers and quietly slips out into the hallway. He twists the dial of the thermostat down a few notches before making his way to the bathroom and turning on the shower. The water remains stubbornly lukewarm, but he doesn’t mind. The downpour washes away all the dirt and sweat and general uncleanness. He still feels a little dirty afterwards, though. And more than a little guilty.

When he finishes up, Stiles is awake and bustling about in the kitchen. The boy is dressed, too, standing at the stove making scrambled eggs. His hair is a mess, skin around his left eye darkened from the impact of the crash. He looks up upon hearing Derek’s entrance, glances questioningly at the pan in front of him. “Want some?”

Derek nods. “Sure.” He looks at the microwave, watches the plastic plate spin in a circle. “What’s in there?”

“Bacon,” Stiles replies, fixated on getting the eggs just right. His mouth quirks up at the side. “You’re not a vegetarian, I assume?”

Derek snorts in response. He scratches the back of his head, drags himself over to a stool at the counter and sits down. “Got any coffee?”

Stiles turns to face him, expression incredulous. “You drink coffee?”

“Uh...” Derek arches a questioning eyebrow. “Yes.” He frowns.

Stiles shrugs, turns back to the sizzling pan. “Huh. Didn’t think of you as a coffee drinker. Although I guess I don’t really think of you as doing normal people things anyway. So, yeah.”

Derek rolls his eyes, propping his elbows up on the countertop. He taps at the false granite, drumming his fingers distractedly. “Okay. What _do_ you think I do with my time?”

“I dunno. Stare soulfully out windows? Brood in dark corners of abandoned houses? Read poetry and plot bloody vengeance? The usual.” He bites back a giggle at Derek’s perplexed expression. “You can’t really blame me. You’re like Quasimodo, dude. You hide in the rafters and stare down at all the townspeople from your cave of despair.”

“I don’t remember Quasimodo having a cave of despair,” Derek replies drily. “And if I’m him, does that make you Esmeralda?”

Stiles retrieves a pair of paper plates from the cabinet by the fridge. “Absolutely. Although I think she’s got me beat in the sexy hair department.” He runs a hand over his scalp thoughtfully, taking the pan and scraping the eggs onto the two plates. He pushes one over to Derek. “I’m trying to grow mine out, though. Ready for a change.” He waves a hand vaguely over his shoulder. “The coffee pot is over there, if you want to make some.” The microwave dings.

Derek nods, picking up a fork for his food. “In a minute, yeah.”

He sits on the stool, slumped over the counter, and Stiles stands on the other side. They eat in silence, chewing their eggs and bacon. Derek catches Stiles shooting him quick glances throughout their breakfast, but he’s kind enough not to point it out. Mostly because he’s delaying this conversation for as long as possible.

When their plates are clean, Derek rises, moving around the counter to start the pot of coffee. He stares at the glass mug as it fills up, tapping his foot. He can feel Stiles’ eyes boring into the back of his head.

“I thought maybe we’d end up talking about our parents,” the boy says after a while, voice soft, small. Derek closes his eyes, swallows. “Like, maybe I’d tell you about my mother, and then you’d feel like talking about your family. And things would go from there, and...you know. I dunno. That’s just how I thought this would happen.”

Derek turns away from the coffee pot. Stiles’ heartbeat is nervous, pattering away, but his expression is calm, betraying no hint of his carefully concealed fear. “That never would have happened,” Derek says firmly. He looks down at the ground, more comfortable with staring at the lines of the kitchen tiles than with holding Stiles’ gaze. “I think-” He cuts off, grinds his teeth together. Starts again. “I think you know me well enough that there’s no point in pretending that I’m...over it. Or whatever. Because I’m not over it, and I never will be.” He forces himself to look up. “But that’s okay. And I think you know _that_ , too. Because you’re not over your mother, and you never will be.” He shrugs, shoulders stiff. “And really, would you ever _want_ to be?”

Stiles looks away, blinking rapidly. “Not if that would mean forgetting about her,” he responds eventually. Derek nods in agreement.

“You never forget. It never goes away completely. So yeah, I’m not ‘better.’ But I _have_ worked through it now. As much as I can, anyway.” His expression turns hard. “So now that you know that, you’ll know I’m telling the truth when I say that I never want to talk about them again. With you or anyone else. Because they’re _mine_ , and that’s not something I feel like sharing.”

He grips the edges of the counter behind him, steeling himself. It’s stupid that he feels like crying. There’s no fucking _reason_ for it. He holds it in, crushes the feeling into dust.

Stiles is staring at him, and it’s eerie how he manages to make pity look sincere instead of condescending. Derek can’t think of another person who could pull that off. “Okay,” the kid says, earnest, infuriatingly agreeable. “Okay, I get that.”

The coffee maker stops, finished with its cycle. Derek ignores it. He pinches the bridge of his nose, grunts. “Alright, look. What happened last night...”

Stiles’ face falls. Eyes narrowing, he raises a threatening finger. “Oh, no. _No_. We’re not playing that game. You don’t get to _do_ that, Derek. Okay? That’s not how this works.”

His lip sticks out in a pout, and it’s so childish and ridiculous, Derek can’t quite contain the snort of laughter that bubbles up inside his chest. He ducks his head, swallows back the urge to smile. “No, really. Stiles...” He rubs his cheek, absently thinking that he could really use a shave. “Again, I’m not going to lie to you. I know that we’ve had...” He sighs. “I know there’s been a certain degree of... _tension_ between us.” Stiles bobs his head enthusiastically.

“Flaming gay tension. Epic amounts of homoerotic eyefucking. It’s documented fact. Even Scott has started to notice.”

Derek ignores him. “Do I really need to go through a list of the reasons why this _can’t_ happen?” he grumbles.

Stiles crosses his arms, scowls. “Uh, dude. It kinda already _did_ happen. Sooo...a little too late on that one, yeah?” He takes a step back, leaning up against the wall. He lets one arm dangle, rubbing at his elbow with the other. “As for your stupid list, _no_ , I do not need for you to go through it because I’m not a fucking idiot. I already know everything you’re going to say.”

Derek winces. “Stiles...”

“I’m too young, yeah? Young enough to earn the jailbait title, never mind the fact that you’re totally okay with breaking _other_ laws, not to mention that you’ve _already fucked me_.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek growls, more forcefully. 

“So it wouldn’t work because of that, and because you’re too damaged, and because it would be too dangerous. And because my dad’s a cop, and because you don’t want to steal my ‘innocence,’ or some bullshit like that. Have I covered it all? Or have I forgotten something?”

Derek doesn’t reply. He glares in silence, unable to come up with a retort that isn’t equally as juvenile.

Stiles’ face softens. He moves forward, grabs Derek by the wrist. “I’m a kid,” he says quietly. “I’m well aware. But that’s alright because you are, too. Where it counts, at least.” He rubs his thumb over Derek’s wrist, up and down in gentle, sweeping motions. “What happened yesterday...shouldn’t have happened the way it did. But it _did_ , and for the first time in - I dunno, fucking _years_ , it feels like - I can actually live inside my own head without jumping out of my skin. Ever since the crash, I’ve felt centered in a way I can’t remember being before. I can keep my thoughts straight, I can actually sit still for more than five seconds.” 

Derek closes his eyes. “You’ll come down from the high,” he murmurs. “Whatever you’re feeling right now won’t last. And when you realize what kind of a guy I am, you’ll want out.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I won’t blame you when that happens. But it will happen, sooner or later.”

Stiles runs his hand up Derek’s arm to rest on his shoulder. “Have a little faith. This is something worth believing in.”

Derek huffs a silent laugh. “Hallmark slogans work just fine until you sit back and remember the kind of luck we’re used to.”

He feels pressure on the back of his neck: Stiles’ hand pulling him down, guiding him so that their mouths are inches apart. “How about this then: if you try to push me away, I’m going to keep chasing after you until you agree to try for something good just to make me shut the fuck up. Better?”

And the argument is over. Derek leans in the rest of the way, giving in to the kiss. When he pulls back a minute or so later, he says, “A little bit.”

Stiles smiles in reply, wide and radiant and full of hope. It’s maybe the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen.


End file.
